The Attorney
by Succi
Summary: After Sherlock is shot in HLV, John finds out that his friend has a LPA, giving M.H. the authority over his medical treatment. What if M.H. doesn't even know about the document? And why M.H.?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **

**For those who might not know: A ****health and welfare lasting power of attorney**** (****LPA****) is a legal document that lets the donor (in our case Sherlock) appoint a person (an attorney) to make decisions about medical treatment (such as life-sustaining treatment) if the donor is not capable of making his own decisions. The LPA has to be signed by the donor, the attorney and a witness. **

This is set after Sherlock is shot in _His last vow_, and goes a bit AU from there.

English it not my native tongue, so please bear with me.

Manu: Happy Birthday! Dein Wunsch ist mir Befehl: Wie "bestellt" Sherlock-u-Molly-im-Krankenhaus-Szene ;-)

Disclaimer: Rose is blonde, the TARDIS is blue, I don't own Sherlock so please don't sue.

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_I know I never had you but I know I need you back. – Seven Letters _

They had shown him a room where they could be "on their own", where they would be "not disturbed". And yet he refused to stay in that room. Being a doctor he knew the kind of room they had sent them to and he knew the purpose of it. It was the room where the mourning families were sent to before the doctors would come and tell them they were sorry, and that they had tried everything in their power, but there had been nothing they could have done.

But John Watson refused to be part of the mourning family – to be precise, he was not even a real part of the family, he did not have the same blood running through his veins as the man that was currently in surgery fighting for his life. He was "just" a friend – his best friend, and his best friend had become kind of his family over the last years. And for some time he had been the only family John had felt close to (not that he did not feel close to Harry, but his relationship with Harry was – for the lack of a better word – complicated) until Mary Morstan had stepped into his life.

John sighed deeply, let his head drop and leaned against the white wall in the hospital corridor. It was weird: As a doctor he had never minded being in a hospital, but as a friend of a patient it was horrid. He hated the smell, the colour of the walls, the scrubs the nurses were wearing – in short he hated everything here.  
His wife joined him and looked at him concerned.  
"He will make it," she reassured him, "he is strong."  
He knew that. Sherlock was probably the strongest person he knew – he had jumped off a roof and survived after all. But this was different. This time it was not an elaborate plan that his best friend had worked out together with the British government (read: his brother). This time it was for real: Sherlock Holmes was in imminent danger of dying in an operating theatre after being shot by an assassin. Only thinking about the person who had done it made his blood boil.

Mary touched his arm and glided her hand down to his to entwine their fingers. He looked up from the floor into her eyes that shone with empathy, assurance and could it be... guilt? The army doctor could still not believe how he was so lucky to deserve a woman like her. He squeezed her hand. He did not know how he would bear this waiting without her.

"Where is Mycroft?" Mary asked out of the blue.  
"I guess, they've already contacted him, because he is his next of kin. And even if not, I figure he knows by now."  
Mary only nodded. If there was one person on the planet who would know where and how Sherlock Holmes was, it was his older brother.

"Have you told Molly?" Mary asked then.  
"She already knew."  
Mary looked at him quizzically. "How come?"  
John shrugged his shoulders and realized in the process how tense his neck felt. "One of the paramedics is a friend of hers and he called her, as soon as he knew it was Sherlock Holmes who had been shot."  
Mary chuckled. "Sweet Molly Hooper has a network all of her own, who would have thought...?"  
John smiled weakly.  
"But if she already knows, where is she? I was sure she would rush to come to see him."  
"She was here before you came. She waited for us when we arrived with the ambulance. But she had to leave shortly after Sherlock was wheeled into the OT. She mumbled something about an autopsy she could not postpone, because the police needed the results. But I'm sure she will be back as soon as possible."  
Mary sighed. "I bet. Poor Molly, I'm sure she can't concentrate on the post mortem, worrying about her consulting detective all the time."  
John "hmmed" in affirmation. Suddenly his face snapped towards Mary and he looked alert. "Speaking of '**her'** consulting detective... We should probably call Janine."  
Mary could not really place John's tone. "You have not called her yet?"  
The former army doctor looked a bit sheepish. "No... the thing is... Sherlock might have done something a bit not good."  
Mary drew up an eyebrow. She already had a suspicion, but she wanted to hear it from her husband. "John, what do you mean?"  
John cleared his throat and began to explain his wife what he knew about the nature of the relationship between his favourite high functioning sociopath and his supposed fiancée.

In John's opinion the reaction of his wife to the revelation about the real reason behind Sherlock's relationship with Janine was reluctant. She did not seem angry at his friend at all. Given that Janine had been Mary's maid of honour, John had expected his wife to be at least a little bit furious. But she even seemed to find it a bit amusing. Even Molly had been more shocked when he had told her. John was just about to tell her that he found her reaction peculiar, when a nurse in blue scrubs walked up to them. The married couple turned their attention to her. She wore the typical serious nurse-expression: a face which was supposed to express empathy, but in reality it was just a well-trained mask. John hated her.  
"Mr and Mrs Watson, would you want to sit down for a moment?" her voice was all well-practised tranquillity as well and she pointed towards a few seats next to them.  
John crossed his arms. "No, thank you. What will it help if I sit down?"  
"John!" Mary looked at the nurse apologetically, who nodded in understanding.  
John sighed and dropped his hands, "Sorry. Would you please tell us how he is?"  
The nurse avoided eye contact and looked down onto the floor. John needn't be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that this did not mean good news.  
"Mr Holmes is still in surgery. He has been severely wounded and he's lost a lot of blood. Luckily the bullet has blocked the entrance wound and the ambulance has arrived in time, but… The doctors do their best, but it doesn't look good." Finally she looked John into the eyes. Mary took John's hand again and squeezed it. She could feel that her husband's body language was completely tense. John could not help but snap at the nurse again, "We already know this. What do you really want to say?"  
It was clear from her expression that the nurse did not know how to phrase the next part. She shuffled her feet. Finally she asked, "I know you are worried right now, but did Mr Holmes ever talk to you about his LPA?"  
John was dumbfounded. "His LPA?" he parroted and could hear Sherlock's voice in his head scolding him, "Yes John, do keep up!" The thought of maybe never hearing his condescending baritone ever again made his heart ache, and he shook his head to chase it away.  
The nurse explained, "Yes, there is a health and welfare lasting power of attorney, signed by M.H."  
John did not know why he felt a pang of jealousy. It was irrational, it was stupid, but he could not help but feel a little disappointed that Sherlock had put the decision of life and death (literally) into the hands of his cold brother and not into his – his doctor and best friend. But then again it made perfect sense: Mycroft was family – real family and he had known that Sherlock had been alive all along. How weird would it have been if he had been contacted after the fall to decide if a "dead" detective should live or die? And now when Mycroft should have been here he was nowhere to be seen – probably starting a war in some foreign country.  
"John?" Mary's gentle voice rang to him through the fog of his muddled thoughts. He turned to look at her. She smiled faintly and he momentarily felt a bit stronger. He turned back to the nurse. He cleared his throat before he spoke. "No, I didn't know about the LPA."  
The nurse – John could spot her name tag which identified her as "Abby" – nodded.  
"Well, we've already contacted the attorney, but so far we could not reach…"  
"Where is he?" The nurse was interrupted when as if on cue the person in question rounded the corner, accompanied by his umbrella and his authoritative attitude. Nurse Abby looked surprised at the man in the suit. John did not know if he was relieved or not when the older Holmes stopped in front of the small group and addressed them, "John, Mrs Watson." Both nodded and then the nurse had the dubious honour to have Mycroft's attention drawn back to her. He gave her the lofty once-over John was so used to seeing from Sherlock, knowing he was deducing her. When he was done (which took about 2 seconds) he snapped at the woman in blue scrubs, "Now, where is he?"  
The nurse needed a moment to find her voice, "Sorry, but who are you?"  
"I'm Mycroft Holmes. My brother Sherlock Holmes is currently in surgery after being shot. Now could you take me to him?"  
I didn't escape John's notice that Mycroft's fingers were nervously drumming on the handle of his umbrella. Never before had John seen Mycroft openly display signs of nervousness. John decided to explain it to the nurse, "This is Mycroft Holmes; M.H. He is the attorney."  
Mycroft's head snapped in the direction of the former army doctor. "I'm what?"  
John's brows drew together in slight confusion and Mary looked from her husband to Mycroft and back.  
"You signed Sherlock's LPA."  
Mycroft huffed. "I certainly did not." A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Do you really think Sherlock would…" But Mycroft could not finish his sentence, because the meek voice of nurse Abby interrupted him, "Excuse me, but he is not M.H." She pointed towards Mycroft who sneered at her gesture. He was not used to be pointed at. All looked at the nurse. Finally she cleared up the confusion, "M.H. stands for Molly Hooper. Some Doctor Molly Hooper signed the health and welfare lasting power of attorney of Mr Sherlock Holmes."

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**A/N: **_**Seven Letters **_**is a song by Coldwater Road – if you don't know it, give it a try! The lyrics are just so true… ;-)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed, put this story to alerts, etc.!**

**I know this one is a really short chapter (shame on me), but I promise the next one will be long and full of Sherlolly ;-) I promised Manu a long conversation at the hospital bed for her birthday after all... **

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"What!?" Molly Hooper was staring dumbfounded at the small group of people in front of her.  
"Sorry, I am what?!" she repeated.  
"You are Sherlock's attorney," John Watson said slowly.  
Molly shook her head, her ponytail bouncing from left to right in the process. "No, I am not."  
The nurse turned to her, "But you are Doctor Molly Hooper, aren't you?"  
"Yes," she confirmed hesitantly.  
Abby shrugged, "Well, then apparently you have signed the LPA of Mister Sherlock Holmes."  
The pathologist shook her head again. "No, I have not. I would certainly remember something like that, don't you think?"  
The nurse eye's narrowed. "There's no need to snap at me, Dr Hooper."  
Before Molly could reply, Mary interfered, "It looks like Sherlock faked you signature then."  
John sighed deeply, "Sounds like a Sherlock-thing to do." He drew a hand over his face in a gesture of frustration.  
Molly sighed deeply as well and momentarily closed her eyes. "God, I hate him."  
"No, you don't." Mary smiled.  
"Sometimes I do." Molly opened her eyes again.  
"There must be a witness to sign the LPA. Who was it?" John asked Abby.  
The nurse looked at her chart and read, "Some person called 'Redbeard Holmes'."  
John rolled his eyes, "And that name didn't strike anybody as odd?!"  
Nurse Abby's voice was defensive, "No offence, but with a donor that's called 'Sherlock'? And what was his brother's name? Mycraft?"  
"Mycr**o**ft."  
"Whatever… My point is, odd names seem to be the norm in this family."  
John sighed deeply. He could hardly argue with that.  
"But why me?" the pathologist asked knowing full well that probably no one of the people present could give her a satisfying answer.  
John cleared his throat. "At first we thought M.H. stood for Mycroft Holmes."  
The pathologist shrugged. "Would be a logical thing to assume."  
"Yeah, Sherlock would be proud of me," John tried to lighten the mood, but it had more the opposite effect – by hearing their friend's name they all stared down onto the floor.  
"Where is Mycroft, by the way?" Molly asked.  
Mary answered, "He wandered off mumbling something about checking if the surgeon he had requested was doing his job properly."  
"If the operation goes wrong we can at least blame it on Mycroft, because he distracted the surgeon by correcting him," Molly chuckled.  
Nobody joined her, but all looked even more horrified. "Sorry," she mumbled and looked at her shoes.  
Nurse Abby cleared her throat, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but we still haven't cleared up the thing with the LPA, and time is running out."  
All looked at her as if they had all but forgotten about her. The nurse turned to Molly again, "So are you or are you not the person appointed by Sherlock Holmes to make decisions about life-sustaining treatment on his behalf?"  
All eyes were on the pathologist. "I... I mean... I don't...," she stammered. The nurse tried again, "Do you know what a health and welfare lasting power of attorney is and what responsibility a person who signed it holds?"  
Molly nodded slowly, "Yes, I do."  
"Well then?"  
Molly's eyes searched John's. "John, I did not..."  
But he interrupted, "I know. But he would have wanted you to."  
Mary held her breath just for a moment when a silent conversation seemed to be going on between her husband and his friend. She only exhaled again when Molly turned back towards nurse Abby again, a determined expression on her face. "Yes, I signed the health and welfare lasting power of attorney of Mister Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for all the alters, reviews (Thank your Guests!), interest, ... in this story. Here is the promised long chapter with a lot of dialogue... Enjoy! **

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The room was quiet and it smelled like hospital rooms normally did – sterile. The heart monitor was on mute, because it had driver her crazy after about five minutes. Of course she was used to it, because she worked in a hospital herself, but Molly Hooper was not used to sitting in a room waiting desperately for a patient to wake up again. It would have been more than weird if one of her patients woke up.

Sherlock Holmes was pale – even paler than he usually was and his lips had a faint blue colour. It seemed to Molly as if only his dark curls set him up from the white sheets. Molly was absently fumbling with the hem of her jumper. She had been here for hours, waiting for him to finally wake up. He had been in and out of consciousness a few times, but never long enough to recognize anyone, yet even talk. Being a doctor she knew that was perfectly normal, but still she was worried. It had been so close. He had been so close to dying. He had even flat lined and she had already seen herself having to make the dreadful decision Sherlock had signed her up for – life-sustaining treatment or not. But then he had found his way back and the doctors had been able to stop the bleeding and he had made it out of the OT alive. The doctors had said it was a miracle. Molly did not believe in miracles – she was scientist after all – but with the consulting detective everything was possible. She did not care if it had been a miracle, God, a surgeon or chance that had brought him back to her, she was just glad that he had returned. She did not dare think about the inconsolable loss his death would have brought upon her.

Her neck was stiff and her whole body ached from sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair for the most of the time. Sherlock stirred in his sleep, mumbled something Molly could not understand. John had told her – a playful look in his face – that the first thing Sherlock had been mumbling after surgery had been Mary's name. He had winked at her and had said he was seriously considering now to act jealous once Sherlock would wake up properly. Molly had appreciated John's attempt at humour – he was such a sweet person, always trying to make the best of a situation. But now Sherlock was mumbling something different. Lines of worry formed on his face and he turned his head from side to side, a few locks falling into his forehead in the process. Molly was cajoled into reaching over and brushing them away and maybe touching his cheek to help him calm down, but she made herself hold back. She knew Sherlock would not appreciate such a sentimental gesture. Still, she could not refrain from taking his left hand into hers. It was cold and the pathologist began to trace the back of it with her thumb lightly. She was pretty sure Sherlock would not approve of that either, but she found she did not care. Even if he was still out she wanted him to know that he was not alone, that she was there for him. He stopped moving in his sleep and Molly found her gaze glued to the spot where her finger was tracing the back of his hand. It was the first time she was holding his hand and she could not help the chuckle that escaped her when it occurred to her that she had always hoped for different circumstances for that to happen and how ironic it was that he had almost had to die so that he would "allow" her to get so close.

"I don't see what's funny about this."  
Her head snapped up to where the rasping voice was coming from.  
"But then, you've always had a morbid sense of humour."  
Molly looked into the tired and glassy eyes of Sherlock Holmes. His pupils were slightly dilated from the medication, but Molly could recognize the familiar spark behind them – not burning, but glimmering. She was so relieved to finally see him awake that the only thing she could say was a stupid exclamation of his name, "Sherlock!"  
He winced and Molly got up quickly to the morphine drip. "Are you in a lot of pain?" she asked.  
"What do you think?" he snapped.  
Molly was about to turn up the morphine, when a cold had stopped her. "No. I can't think with that stuff. I need to think."  
She gently put his hand away. "No Sherlock, you need to rest. And you can't rest properly when you're in pain." She looked hard at him, his hand somehow hovering above hers and she expected him to put up a fight about it, but he closed his eyes and dropped his hand. Molly took it as a sign of resignation and turned up the morphine. She watched as the clear liquid made its way through the IV and into his armpit. A few seconds later Sherlock let out a long breath and relaxed visibly.  
The pathologist sat back into her chair next to his bed, bent her head and rubbed her stiff neck.  
"You look tired," came the baritone from the hospital bed.  
Molly stopped what she was doing and looked up. Sherlock's eyes were roaming over her. "You have been here for..." It was obvious that he wanted to tell her the exact number of hours she had been here (ever the show-off), but his drugged brain would not allow such a deduction. Molly felt sorry for him when she watched him struggle to come up with the correct answer. She figured it must have been exceptionally hard for him, because he probably did not even know how long he had been asleep. Finally he gave in and stated, "You have been here for quite some time."  
The petite woman nodded, "Mary and John have been here for a long time too, but Mary did feel sick and John went to take her home. He promised he would be back soon."  
It looked like Sherlock shrugged, but it was hard to tell with him still lying.  
"Hm... Mary," he mumbled and his stare got vacant for a moment. Molly drew her brows in confusion. "What about her?"  
Sherlock slowly turned to look at her. "What?" he asked.  
"You're said...," she started, but stopped mid-sentence, "Never mind."

Sherlock went back to look at the ceiling. He reached over to the control panel and pressed the button to lift the head section of the bed up. Molly watched his features contort in pain while his upper body was brought more and more into an upright position. Again Molly had to control her instinct to reach over to him and touch him. When he was in an almost sitting position, he let go of the button and tried to find a comfortable position that caused him as less pain as possible.  
"Mrs Hudson was here too," Molly said.  
Sherlock's voice lacked any emotion, "I know, she brought flowers." He indicated towards the vase on the windowsill that contained a bunch of purple flowers. "They make the room look like a tomb," he said.  
Molly decided to ignore the comment and went on to list the visitors, "Lestrade was here too and brought you a t-shirt. He said it was from the whole Yard." She reached behind her and retrieved a black t-shirt that had "Of course I'm an organ donor. Who wouldn't want a piece of this?!" written on it. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "How funny..."  
A smile twitched on the corners of Molly's lips. His grumpy expression was just so adorable. It was quite the reaction she had expected from him. "You should wear it when you're going to be released. I'm sure Greg would love to see a picture of you in it on a cover."  
"Who?"  
Now it was Molly's turn to sigh while she put the shirt away again. "Lestrade."  
"Oh."  
"Of course Mycroft was here as well, but he had to leave in order to... you know." Molly made a helpless gesture with her hand, because the truth was, she did not know where or even when the older Holmes had left. All of a sudden he had just been gone.  
Sherlock drew up his eyebrows. "Seems like I'm a fairly popular man these days." Sherlock coughed at the end of the sentence and Molly filled a cup with water and handed it to him. He looked at the object for a moment, as if not sure what to do with it, before he took a few small sips. Molly sat back down.  
"You didn't need to stay," he said to the cup.  
She decided to focus on the cup too when she answered, "It's okay. I didn't want you to wake up alone."  
Sherlock sank the hand with the mug in it; out of both of their sights of vision.  
"I wake up alone every day. I don't see why this should be any different."  
"Yes, but..." Molly started to fumble with the hem of her jumper.  
"I like waking up alone." The vehemence of his statement made Molly draw back a little. She tried her best to make her voice sound gentle. "I understand. It's just... no one should have to wake up alone after surgery."  
Sherlock looked at her. His eyes were fixed onto hers as if trying to read her thoughts. Not for the first time she wished she could read his. She started to feel uncomfortable under his gaze so she asked, "Sherlock, what happened?" The question had plagued her since he had been brought in. John had been very vague in his statements about what had happened, but it had been obvious that he had been bothered that he did not know who had shot his friend.  
Sherlock's expression was detached. "I got shot, obviously."  
The pathologist gave him a hard stare, determined to convey that she did not think this was a matter to joke about, and she would have none of his smart-arse behaviour. His expression was stern and serious, but his voice considerably softer, "I can't tell you any more."  
"So, this is the same case you needed Janine for?"  
Sherlock's lips set into a grim line. "Yes." He closed his eyes and leaned back into his pillow. Molly knew on the one hand this was Sherlock's way of signalling her that he would not elaborate on that matter and on the other hand a signal of his exhausted state.

Sherlock remained quiet for a long time, and Molly was almost convinced he had fallen back to sleep again, when he stated, with his eyes still closed, "You are here."  
At first Molly was confused as to why he would state the obvious when they had already been talking for some time, but then she caught up with what he could mean and shrugged (although he could not see her), "Well, you more or less forced me to come."  
He slowly opened his eyes, but would not look at her, but at some invisible spot on the other side of the room – invisible to her at least. "I was not sure if you would come … after… you've slapped me."  
Molly's voice did not waver one bit, "You deserved it."  
That made him look at her. The pathologist could not read his expression as to find out if he was angry, surprised or just bored by her statement.  
"It hurt," he said.  
Still, she was unaffected by him. "I should hope so."  
Silence. He kept staring at her as if he was trying to make sense of what she had said. Molly was determined not to look away and she found it easier than she would have thought. She found the strength to withstand his wary stare by remembering how furious she had been when the drug test had been positive. She was still angry at him for what he had done – that he had risked a relapse just for a case. But at the moment she was more relieved that he was still alive than wanting to have that conversation with him. She could wait with her sermon until he would feel better.

Sherlock's voice interrupted her thoughts, "What did you mean with 'I more or less forced you to come' here?"  
Suddenly Molly felt as if the room was getting considerably hotter. While she had been waiting for him to wake up she had tried to imagine different versions of this conversation and what she could possibly say – she more or less had a whole speech prepared. But now words failed her and she had the feeling they had entered dangerous waters. She could not even pinpoint why she was feeling that way. She only knew she did. She cleared her throat, which all of a sudden felt very dry, "You know very well what you have done, Sherlock Holmes." Molly tried her best to sound stern, but the consulting detective did not react at all. He only arched an eyebrow. The pathologist sat up straight. "You have faked my signature, Sherlock. You made me your attorney without my knowledge!" Her voice was getting louder with every word and it cost her a lot of effort not to scream at him. All her pent up emotions from the last few hours threatened to come to the surface and she had a hard time maintaining some semblance of control.  
Sherlock watched her in silence, clearly judging her every reaction.  
"Why did you do that, Sherlock? Why me?"  
The consulting detective cocked his head to the side and his voice lacked any emotion when he answered, "When I drew up my LPA they told me to choose someone who loved me."  
Molly blinked a few times to make sure she had heard him correctly. She feared she was either red like a tomato or white like a sheet – either way it was embarrassing. She struggled for words, "But... but... what about your parents? Or John?"  
He shrugged in his typical careless way. "They are my parents. They could never let me go. And the same goes for John. He is way too thick headed to let me die in peace."  
Molly found it hard to breathe. She had to admit he was right. "And you thought I could?" She found herself on the receiving end of his don't-be-stupid-stare. "I knew you'd make the right decision. You're the most selfless person I know."  
Molly had to smile in spite of herself, but her smile dropped when he added, "I mean, how else could you still care about me, if you didn't love me?"  
The petite pathologist desperately wanted to bury her face in her hands to hide her flaming cheeks. She could not look at him anymore, thus she stared at the flowers Mrs Hudson had left by the window. They were pretty and Molly wondered briefly if the old lady had chosen the colour on purpose.  
"You have been crying," Sherlock observed, sounding surprised.  
She could not believe how he could be so cool about all of this, and she kept staring at the purple flower arrangement. "Well, of course. You would have almost died."  
"But I did not."  
Molly was immune to the finality of his tone. "You flat lined, Sherlock. That's how close were!" When she looked at him again, she was no able to keep rein over her emotions anymore and tears made their way down her cheeks again. She did not even attempt to brush them away, although she knew seeing them made Sherlock uncomfortable. She wanted him to see how his death would have hurt the people who loved him. She wanted him to realize that not everyone was a machine and could switch on and off their emotions how it pleased them. Her voice was a bit chocked when she spoke, but she did not care. "I've already seen myself making the decision about plugging you to some machines or donating your organs."  
"You've doubted me?" Sherlock sounded hurt, almost angry. His jaw set in a stern expression. "I am resilient," he stated in an irrefutable tone. Only now did Molly brush away some tears. "I did not doubt you, Sherlock. You are the strongest person I know. But even the strongest person is bound to a weak human body. I was afraid you would have cheated death too often." She made a pause in which Sherlock studied her face closely. She was desperately looking for the right words to make him understand how she was feeling. "You've dumped all this responsibility on me. I... I... I felt daunted in the face of it. I mean..." She threw her hands up, trying to chase some of the anxiety away she had been feeling for the past hours. She let out a deep breath and leaned back into her seat exhausted.  
The man in the hospital bed followed her movements with stoic manner, but Molly saw the interest glimmering in his eyes. Or maybe she was imagining it and it was just the effect of the morphine? The pathologist drew her hands across her face, to get rid of the remaining tears. "You have trusted me with your life, Sherlock." She tried to make him see the gravity of his act.  
He was totally unimpressed, "I did that before."

Molly dropped her hands onto her lap and stared at him; she had never seen it that way. He was right, of course. He had put his life into her hands before, trusting her she would not fail him and she had proved to him that she was worth his trust. He had told her he trusted her, but since Molly Hooper was a person who constantly doubted herself, she had refused to see how deep his trust really ran. Being so shocked by this fact, Molly had not realized that Sherlock had turned a bit more towards her and only when she felt his hand covering hers on her lap, she snapped out of her reverie. His expression was everything but impassive. It seemed to convey so much that Molly had a hard time classifying all the emotions: there was thankfulness, shame, encouragement, disbelieve, uncertainty, ... and even shyness. Molly could not remember a time when she had seen Sherlock look like that. She felt his fingers lightly draw patterns on her hand. A smile tucked on the corners of her mouth. This was much closer to the way she had imagined holding hands with Sherlock Holmes than before. When he saw her looking at their hands, he stopped his movements, but she looked him into the eyes and smiled sweetly at him; trying to convey that she appreciated the physical contact he had initiated. He understood, because he resumed the movement. Now he traced his index finger lightly over the fourth finger of her left hand.  
"I like it better this way," he said.  
"Which way?" She hated how breathless her voice sounded.  
"Without a ring."  
Molly did not really know what to say to that. She feared she would fall back to stuttering again if she tried to form a coherent sentence. Therefore she remained silent, her stare fixed on his fingers gently caressing hers. The pathologist could feel his eyes on her, but she did not dare to look up. She was sure he could feel her racing pulse. Her skin tingled under his touch and she had to supress a shiver.

"You've heard about Janine." It was not a question, and suddenly the spell they had been under was broken. How she hated that name! Sherlock felt the change in her and stopped his caress. She made an attempt to pull her hand away from his grasp – suddenly wanting to put some distance between them – but he would not let her. He held onto her wrist; not fiercely, but so as to let her know that he would not allow her to retreat from him. When she realized it was no use, she explained, "John told me. It was downright cruel."  
He sounded bored, "You didn't even like her."  
"I've never said that," she defended herself. He gave her a look and she sighed in defeat.  
"The both of you have been flirting at the wedding all the time. Of course I didn't like her."  
"Well, you were busy snogging your fiancé," he said in a way of explaining, sounding outright disgusted.  
"He's not my fiancé anymore."  
"But he was then."  
Molly only nodded. Sherlock closed his eyes as a wave of pain hit him and he squeezed Molly's wrist. She moved her hand so that she could take his into hers and squeezed back. Sherlock exhaled and loosened the grip on her hand. He opened his eyes again and Molly saw a mischievous glint in them. She was not sure why it was there, but it somehow made her bolder and more confident. "Even if you were still together with Janine, now you would be in serious trouble."  
The corners of his mouth twitched and he leaned a bit closer to her – looking a bit clumsy in the process, because he tried his best to avoid any more pain.  
"Why?" he asked.  
Molly leaned more forward as well. "Because girlfriends don't like it at all when another woman has the authority over the life of their boyfriend."  
Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow, a playful expression on his face. "Is that so? Well, in this case..."  
Molly mimicked his expression, "In this case... what?"  
"You need to become my girlfriend."  
Molly's face dropped and in an unconscious move she tried again to withdraw her hand from his. And again he held it in place. Her voice was strained with the hurt she was feeling, "This is not funny, Sherlock."  
„Am I laughing?" His face showed nothing but seriousness when he went on to explain, "It would be beneficial for the both of us. I want you to be my attorney and you want to be my girlfriend."  
Molly tried her best to sound scandalized, "I've never said I wanted to be your girlfriend."  
Sherlock snorted, "Please, you did not even contradict me when I said you loved me."  
Molly opened her mouth to contradict him now, but nothing came out. He took her lack to protest for affirmation and added, "Additionally, signing someone else up to be my attorney would be a hell lot of paperwork." He smiled at her and Molly could not help it, but do the same. He squeezed her hand and that made the pathologists smile even broader. Still she was reluctant to believe him, knowing what he had done to Janine, and how he had made everyone believe he was in a serious relationship. Of course Sherlock read her body language correctly, leaned back a bit again (trying not to show that he was hurting in the process) and sighed deeply. "Stop doubting yourself and my motives! How often do I have to tell you that you count and that I trust you?" He made an expansive gesture with his hands (as expansive as it was possible with his left arm wired to the IV). "Would I have done what I did if I didn't trust you?"  
He had a point and he knew it. Molly bit her lip and looked down onto her lap again, where her fingers started fidgeting once again. "I guess not, but... for being in a relationship it needs more than trust. I mean... do you even care about me?"  
He looked hard at her and scolded her, "What did I just tell you about doubting yourself?"  
Slowly she looked up from her lap. "That is not an answer to my question." First she thought he would get angry and eventually say something cruel and send her from the room, but he surprised her by sighing again, but this time in defeat. When he looked at her while he was speaking, he looked exactly like a man who had just been shot and conquered death. "You know I am not good at expressing myself verbally when it comes to... sentiment. And I am pretty sure I will never be. But three years ago I was certain I did not have or need friends and now...," he indicated towards the window with his head, "... now I even get flowers." He smiled wearily. "What I am trying to say is that I would like some coffee."  
Molly stared at him dumbfounded. Sherlock's speech had started out so promising and then... "What?!"  
Sherlock realized his mistake and hastened to clarify, "I'd like to have coffee with you and I would even consider getting it for us, but since I am more or less tied to this bed...," his voice trailed off and he looked a bit uncertain. At least that was what Molly thought it looked like, because she had never seen Sherlock wear that expression before.  
Molly chuckled. "Is that your way of asking me out on a date?"  
The consulting detective thought about it for a second. "Well, I'm not really asking you **out**, since we won't leave this room, but if you would like to put it that way: Yes, I am asking you to spend some time with me – without ulterior motives."  
That made the pathologist chuckle again. "That's exactly what a girl dreams about hearing when she gets invited to a date."  
Sherlock was surprised, "Really?"  
Now that made Molly laugh in honest. "No, Sherlock."  
"Hmm." Sherlock pouted and looked down onto the white sheet covering his lower body. Molly stopped laughing and leaned forward, reaching for his hand. When she touched it, he looked at her in such a vulnerable way that Molly felt sorry for laughing in the first place. She thought that the fact that he let her see this side of him should be prove enough for her that he cared about her. She was sure Janine had never seen him like that – stripped off his defences. Molly cleared her throat and hoped that her face conveyed her honesty. "Yes, Sherlock, I would love to have a cup of rubbish hospital coffee with you, although I'm pretty sure you can't have any coffee right now. But I could get some more water, if you'd want some?"  
Sherlock cracked a smile, squeezed her hand and nodded. Molly smiled back and was about to leave to get yet another hospital coffee (she had stopped counting after the fifth one), when he held onto her hand once more. Molly turned to look at him befuddled, and he answered her silent question with a question of his own, "Does this mean you're going to be my attorney?" He sounded outright emotionless, but Molly could detect the slight uncertainty in his voice and eyes. She leaned closer into his personal space when she whispered, "I don't really have a choice, do I? Apparently, I've already signed up for it."  
Sherlock moved so much faster than Molly would have given him credit for in his post-surgery state, but suddenly she felt his lips on hers and her eyes closed on their own accord. His lips were dry – which was to be expected after an operation – but Molly did not care. He gently cupped her cheek with his right hand and Molly mimicked the gesture. The kiss was feather light – promising much more – but Molly felt herself shivering and her pulse quicken. All too soon he pulled away to gauge her reaction. Molly opened her eyes and had to admit she felt somehow tipsy. Sherlock's pupils were dilated, but Molly told herself that it was probably the effect of the morphine and not their kissing, but when she let her hand travel away from his cheek over his chest, she could feel his heart beat erratically under her palm and she could not help but smile widely at him. That made him chuckle, but he stopped abruptly, because it caused him pain. Thus he closed his eyes and leaned back onto the pillow again. He winced in the process.  
"I think it would be better if you'll rest some more before we're going to have our coffee."  
Sherlock's face contorted in pain and Molly pushed the button on the control panel to put the bed back into its original position.  
When Sherlock was lying flat on his back again, he looked at her and murmured, "I am okay. I am not tired." But as soon as he had uttered those words, his body betrayed him and he yawned. Finally Molly felt brave enough to do what she had wanted to do for hours and she reached over to brush a stray lock out of his forehead. "Don't worry, I'll still be here for our coffee when you'll wake up."  
He had closed his eyes at her touch and only mumbled, "Mhm, good," before Molly could see his breath even out and she knew he had gone back to sleep.

The pathologist touched his cheek lovingly, before she went over to the window. Just when she was about to smell the flowers, the door opened and John came in. He looked at Sherlock's sleeping form and then at Molly. His shoulders slacked slightly in disappointment when he said, "So it seems there hasn't been any progress."  
Molly sniffed at the flowers and thought that no flower had ever smelled better. She smiled at the former army doctor. "Honestly John, I think we've made a lot of progress while you were gone."  
John looked flummoxed, "I don't understand."

**The End**


End file.
